The Heart of a Holmes
by ChaosWithImagination
Summary: A collection of small stories that center around the two Holmes brothers.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The first time Sherlock saw it, he was four. He burst into the bathroom, hands full of a mass of things that was supposed to come together to create a wonderful result, when he saw Mycroft sitting on the toilet seat. His brother had one pristine shirt sleeve rolled up while the other held a small scalpel. Mycroft's head as bent in deep concentration as the scalpel carved out tiny intricate patterns on his forearm. As the blood spilled over onto the thick wad of napkins that Mycroft had on his lap Sherlock gasped. Mycroft jerked his head up. Grey eyes locked with blue ones for what felt like an eternity. Then Mycroft sighed; flipped the wad of napkins onto his cut forearm with the air of long practice, got up and came to stand in front of Sherlock.

"When you are a little older," Mycroft said seriously, "I'll explain it to you."

With that he closed the door.

* * *

The second time Sherlock saw it, he was thirteen. He was going through one of his resentful moods after a particularly bad Christmas dinner and decided that he was going to take it out on Mycroft by planting some nasty concoction in his room. He sneaked into Mycroft's room and decided that the wardrobe was the best place to plant it. It would foul all of Mycroft's clothes and that would make _his_ day just peachy. He swung open the door with beaker in hand to find Mycroft curled up in ball, scalpel flashing as Mycroft carved tiny symbols into his hand, grunting with the effort. Mycroft cast one look up at Sherlock, eyes filled with such rage, pain and frustration that Sherlock actually stepped back.

"Mycroft..." he began, forgetting all about his ploy. Mycroft cast him another glare and Sherlock shut up. He stood there waiting till Mycroft was done, had uncurled himself and stepped out of the wardrobe. Rivulets of blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the floor. Sherlock tried to tear his eyes away from the sight but couldn't.

"I suppose that you are old enough for me to tell you now," Mycroft began. This time Sherlock stopped him.

"I know what this is..." he said, then paused, "What i don't know is...why...why are you doing it?"

"It helps me," Mycroft said simply. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, then smirked slowly.

"Awww, poor brother Mycroft going through a bout of depression and self depreciation..." Sherlock sassed. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Don't be more of a fool Sherlock, I am not depressed," Mycroft said condescendingly, "It helps me to think about what bothers me." He put his arm out for Sherlock to see. Sherlock saw beneath the blood, the tiny symbols. He deduced that it was Mycroft's secrets code, but he couldn't decipher it. "When i write it down here," Mycroft said as he shook his arm, "It makes me focus on the problem. It helps me to solve it faster."

Sherlock snorted, "Could you have not come up with a better way to solve them?"

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and tilted his head, "And couldn't you have found a better way to fix your boredom and social awkwardness issues?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft's eyes flickered to the small puncture wounds that lay hidden behind Sherlock's long sleeves.

The brothers stared at each other and then Sherlock left.

* * *

The last time Sherlock saw it he didn't remember anything but the feeling of overwhelming fear and helplessness as he screamed Mycroft's name and dropped beside his brother. He cradled Mycroft's head in his arms, screaming for anyone to come and help him because Mycroft was lying on his bedroom floor, with both arms covered in code and there was blood in pools around him. Mycroft's skin was cold and paler than normal. His lips kept moving, repeating the same words over and over; "Need more space...no solution yet."

* * *

Years later Sherlock was all grown up and Mycroft was now his arc-enemy. He had just gained a friend in the man John Watson and they were solving cases together. They had just walked into a crime scene with Sherlock primed and ready to do his best when the scene stopped him dead in his tracks. The man was lying in pools of blood, both arms covered in code and note on the dresser saying 'Help me find the solution' Sherlock's memory overlapped for a few seconds with the scene and he saw himself kneeling beside Mycroft, screaming. Then John's hand was on his shoulder breaking him out of his trance.

"Are you alright there Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock smiled once weakly, looking back at the body. Then he pulled himself together and got on with the Work. It was wrapped up rather quickly and they got back to their Baker Street home early in the morning. John went to bed and Sherlock stepped into dark safety of his bedroom. He pulled out his phone, stared at the screen for a few seconds before dialing a memorized number.

"Brother dear," Mycroft's pompous voice came over the speakers, "To what do i owe this pleasure?" Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him at the sound of his brother's voice.

"I...I just..." Sherlock began but couldn't finish it. There was silence as both brothers waited.

"What is bothering you Sherlock?" Mycroft said softly and gently. Sherlock took a breath in.

"Do you remember that day?" Sherlock said. The silence at the other end meant that Mycroft certainly knew of what day Sherlock was talking about.

"What brought this on?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"I was on a case today," Sherlock replied, "It was...similar to what happened and i just needed to..." There was silence again.

"I know that you may not have saved this man's life Sherlock," Mycroft finally replied, "But you found out who did. You found the solution." There was another silence.

"Did you ever find the solution?" Sherlock asked. There was a more tense pause this time.

"You saved my life that day Sherlock and for that I am grateful," Mycroft replied, "I remember you screaming my name and calling for help. In that moment the solution to my problem became significantly less important when compared to the importance of the situation at hand."

"So you never found it," Sherlock mused.

"The problem resolved itself," Mycroft said softly, "I have never had it again." there was silence once more then Sherlock sputtered out.

"I am really glad to hear that you are alright Mycroft." SHerlock could not see the small smile on his brother's face.

"Thank you brother dear," Mycroft said, "Now i really must be going, duty calls and all that."

Sherlock muttered his goodbyes and hung up. Just then he heard a soft knock on his door.

"Sherlock you up?" John's voice came through, "I can't sleep dammit. You wanna go get something to eat?" Sherlock smiled before pulling the door open.

"Starving," he replied.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own Sherlock Holmes

* * *

It was not his finest moment. Sherlock hung almost suspended from rusty yet sickeningly sturdy steel pipes. He had to admit that while the case had seemed to be an elementary one at first, it had taken a turn for the worst once he had gone brashly into old warehouse district without first informing Lestrade where he was going to. Sometimes he regretted he cocksure attitude but so far there had been no one that could temper his energies. He forced his mind to turn from the feeling of loneliness and despair that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him to the real problem at hand..how the bloody hell was he supposed to get out of here?

Before he could out his deductions to use the door to his prison opened and a man walked in with a crowbar in tow.

"You have made trouble for for some very dangerous people, Mr. Holmes?" the man said in a thick, accented voice, "They cannot allow you to make more mischief. It will have to end here." Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but the man smiled and swung the crowbar, hitting him full in the face. Sherlock heard the soft, sick crunch of bones as his head rocked back with the force of the blow. Blood splattered his face, filled his mouth and clogged up his nose. He tried to talk again but only made choking noises. The man stepped up to him, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head down to face his.

"Oh a message from my employers," the man smiled at him, "They were very impressed by your methods. Such a young man with such a promising skill set. Too bad that you won't be able to practice it after tonight. Only five cases Mr. Holmes and you're already a had been" Sherlock spat out his spit mingled with blood into the attackers face. The man didn't even flinch; he just laughed.

"Oh Mr. Holmes," he said cheerfully shaking his head, "I am going to enjoy this." With that he rammed the rounded edge of the crowbar into Sherlock's ribs repeatedly then took a step back and hefted the crowbar like a bat. He took aim and swung. The force of blow made Sherlock scream out. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. The man took aim again and swung, hitting just above the previous spot. Sherlock screamed again involuntarily. Then the man kept going, aiming and hitting, working his way systematically up Sherlock's side when he had reached just below the armpit, he stopped and began on the other side. Halfway up Sherlock blacked out.

When he came too it was to the amazing sight of Mycroft Holmes engaging in hand to hand combat with Sherlock's toruturer. Sherlock watched in complete disbelief as Mycroft deflected the man's expert attacks and proceeded to swiftly untie the scarf from around his neck. With what seemed like practiced ease; flipped it around the man's throat, used well placed footwork to get the man's back to him and then with only a slight shift in facial expression, simultaneously tightened the cloth around the man's neck and pulling to the side. There was a dull snap an the man's body went still and then flopped to the ground as Mycroft release the man, flipping the scarf so that it was once more in his hands. He strode up to Sherlock shaking his head and muttering something about having to leave the confines of his club to come fish out little brothers. He unlocked Sherlock and caught him in his arms.

"How..." Sherlock tried to ask.

Mycroft smiled slightly, "sometimes my minor position in the British Government does have it's advantages."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and managed to saw something he hoped resembled, "You ARE the British Government."

* * *

Three months later.

Sherlock walked into his small, seedy apartment after running around for four days after a case. He had lost his scarf during one of those days and he couldn't have been bothered to replace it. He went around his apartment looking for his drug stash that would drag him out into a world where he could just drown and maybe get some rest from his own mind, when a package caught his eye. HE approached it warily then spotted Mycroft's neat handwriting. He scoffed softly but opened the package anyway. It was THE scarf. He held it in his hands, remembering Mycroft's rescue. He looked again to see a small card, on it was written 'For you.'

Sherlock felt his throat tighten for a second and something hot filled his eyes. He blinked back the emotion and slowly opened the scarf. It was dark blue wool. He reached up and tied it around his neck, knotting it loosely around his throat. He looked back at the card; the word 'For You.' staring back at him. Then he flipped it over to see 'i removed your drugs. Good luck.'

"Mycroft!" he screamed in frustration and flung the card across the room.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own Sherlock Holmes

* * *

John Watson, along with the hundreds of people who have ever had interactions with Mycroft Holmes, believed that he was born middle aged, in an expensive suit and holding an umbrella. Of course they didn't REALLY believe it but they definitely believed that it was his fashion of choice. They could most definitely picture a young Mycroft Holmes in a three piece suit and concluded to themselves that he was never more at home in said clothing. And they were hopelessly wrong. There were only three people in the world that knew what Mycroft Holmes dressed like when he was relaxing. There were also only three people in the world that knew Mycroft Holmes relaxed in the first place. And unknown to John Watson, he was going to be added to that list.

It all began when Sherlock told John that Mycroft had invited them to his place to help with solving a case. Sherlock was in unholy glee over the murders but more so over the fact that Mycroft had to ask _him_ for help. John agreed to go. Not that he really had a choice in the matter; Sherlock would have dragged him out of the flat. And if he had manged to stave off Sherlock, Mycroft would have abducted him. So at some hour of the morning they were being whisked away via a shiny black car to Mycroft's place of abode; which was unsurprisingly, an undisclosed location.

When they arrived John stepped out expecting to see a large Victorian styled Mansion but he was looking at a small wooden front gate which guarded a stone path that led to a black door set in the most normal looking house you could imagine. John stood there for a moment trying to process if what he was seeing was true and not some joke.

"Are we at the right place?" John asked. Sherlock gave a look which clearly said "Stop being an idiot' and led the way into the house. He knocked at the door and there was the sound of a lock being juggled with before it opened. Sherlock walked in and John followed only to stop with him mouth open while his hands lost their grip in his bags. There was a loud thud and the sound of something breaking as John fixed his eyes in utter disbelief on Mycroft Holmes.

"Do pick up your things Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, "If I don't close back this door in the next ten seconds, a tactic team will begin move in. And i would so hate for that to happen."

It was him alright. John hurried to drag his bags through the door then looked back as Mycroft closed the door, being careful not to be seen. The man was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with his feet bare and his umbrella no where in sight.

"I've just finished breakfast," Mycroft continued leading them into the kitchen, "Leave you bags there for now. I'll bring you up to speed on the case while we eat."

For the next week and a half John Watson was subjected to the most surreal days of his life as he witnessed Mycroft Holmes relaxing. He found out that Mycroft liked to wear vests and short pants in the evenings before changing into the softest pajamas you could ever find for bed. He found out that Mycroft looked great in a hoodie but only wore them when he played trap-set. He also found out that Sherlock and Mycroft made a mean musical team when they put their minds to it but more often than not ended up arguing over scales, transposition and clefs. He tried not to laugh when Mycrfot wore aprons in the kitchen and a chef's hat on his head when cooking. And besides the food was amazing. He realized that the wrapping a sheet around oneself wasn't a Sherlock thing only. He even saw Mycroft go bareback one day and was horrified to see the scars that littered the man's skin. Mycroft had shrugged off John's voicing of his concern and questions in a way so similar to Sherlock's that John just had to mention it. Mycroft snorted in disdain then told John the story behind one of them just to prove he was more mature.

Finally the case was over and Sherlock and John were waiting to once again be whisked off into the night. John was sitting next to Mycroft, who was in a v-neck jersey and cut off jeans.

"This is why you brought Sherlock on this case," John said to him, "you were taking a break." Mycroft graced him with a small smile.

"One must take care of one's health Doctor, " he replied, "I am sure that you would understand that better than most."

"But Sherlock has seen you like this before but i never have," John said. Mycroft tilted his head to peer at John.

"What i mean is," John continued rolling his eyes, "Why did you let me come? I mean I know this isn't a way that most people see you."

"Only three in the world," Mycroft confirmed, "And now four."

"But why trust me with this?" John asked.

"Because my brother trusts you with everything he has," Mycroft said softly, "And you haven't ever let him down. So i don't think you would start making that a habit now." Before John could answer, Sherlock came bursting in to tell him that they were ready to go. John looked over at Mycroft.

"you'll be alright all by yourself," he asked. Mycroft gave him one of his looks. John stared back at him.

"I'll be fine Doctor," Mycroft conceded. John nodded and they left.

* * *

Two weeks later Mycroft was back in John's life; suit intact and umbrella swinging.


End file.
